


Beacon Hills School for the Gifted

by AwaitTheMorrow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Companionable Snark, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Romance, Werewolves, of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 10:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwaitTheMorrow/pseuds/AwaitTheMorrow
Summary: Stiles really should have seen this coming. He was always a weird kid.





	Beacon Hills School for the Gifted

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for 34 years. Unbeta’d and will probably have four chapters - enjoy!

He can do this, he totally can do this. He’s got this. From within the idling taxi Stiles Stilinski peers out of the half-open window, skeptically appraising the dense forestry and the overwhelming smell of dirt and...greenery. Well, let it never be said that Stiles Stilinski isn’t adaptable. Darwin aint got nothin' on him. 

Quietly questioning his own life choices he hands the cab driver over a crumpled fifty from his pocket and mumbles his thanks as he exits the car. His heavy duffle placed on his right shoulder, sniffs the fresh air while he scans the expanse of trees before him.

_This is the end of the road, kid_ , the cab driver had said. No kidding -  he looks down at his feet where the tar stops and a worn dirt trail begins - it is, quite literally, the end of the road. With modern modes of transportation well and truly behind him he has little choice but to either turn back or move forward lest he spend the night in the mouth of the preserve. He nods to himself and steels his resolve - he didn’t come all this way for nothing. Besides, he has poor circulation and bruises easily, he’s not built for mountain life. Dried leaves crunching beneath his sneakers, Stiles steps forward and slowly trudges up the incline into the woods.

It’s a nice walk, initially. The air is clear and the ascent isn’t top steep, he’s fairly steady. It’s kind of eerie though. There’s no people or signage and he’s not exactly sure where is going, not even slightly. He’s got a piss poor excuse for a map, his intuition and hope for the best.

He wishes his family or friends from home were here to distract him, to make this something of an adventure. Not that this isn’t an adventure right now but with his friends it might be more of a _haha remember the time we got lost_ adventure and less of a Blair Witch reenactment. Birds caw and trill harshly in the distance, nearby shrubs spontaneously rustle and there’s something about the noise that makes his nerves jostle together and his fingers tighten around the strap of his duffle.

He’s never been to Beacon Hills before, let alone the nondescript woodland he’s found himself in. Stiles can’t tell an oak from a pine on a good day and doesn’t really know where he’s exactly supposed to be heading without some kind of sign or trail, concrete or dirt or otherwise. He’s starting to feel like that time he got lost in Tampa when he and his dad were visiting his Aunt Monika in Florida and found himself six miles from where she lived crying into a gutter. Good times.

He looks down at his ‘directions’. _Beacon Hills School for the Gifted_ , had read the crumpled and scrunched piece of paper, still clenched in Stiles fingers. The cab driver had snorted amusedly when he’d unfolded it and shown it to him from the back seat.

_“Can you take me there or not?”_

_“As far as I can go, kid.”_

_“What does that mean?” Stiles asked._

_“I’ll take you to the end of the road,” he’d replied._

Looking over his shoulder he concedes that maybe it was kind of laughable, looking for a school for supposedly gifted individuals when he clearly had a terrible sense of direction - and, not for the first time, he is wondering if this was all some big joke. According to the drivers advice, if he comes across a big-ass haunted house, that means he’s found home sweet home. Which sounds about as comforting as a piranha bite to the testicles, so, with a final glance to the disappearing road, Stiles trudges on ahead and tries to remind himself why he thought this was a good idea. Seeking out a creepy mansion, out of state and in the middle of nowhere for his particular educational needs, in hindsight, doesn’t feel like his best example of decision making. But the alternative? Probably worse.

He decides that if he follows the thin, dirt path, it must take him somewhere - it looks well-travelled. After about fifteen minutes of hiking Stiles picks up a long stick from the ground and shuffles his duffle so it falls diagonally from his shoulder to its’ opposing hip to disperse the weight better. He tries not to think about how his entire life has been packed up and condensed into the overstuffed bag.

Up until one week ago he’d never thought he would have the discipline to compact his life for anyone or anything, _but here he is_ , he thinks doubtfully, but here he is...not, as no spooky mansion comes anywhere into his view. His hamstrings are burning with the exertion and sweat is beading his upper lip and surely, surely there should be some kind of sign of life by now, right? Not more green and lichen and shrilling birds. He feels kind of cheated - this level of exercise was not mentioned in the brochure.

He convinces himself to take a breather, letting his weight drop to sits cross-legged on the mossy ground, uncapping a water bottle and gulping from it quickly. He pulls out his phone from his pocket and grimaces when he notices time the time has hit just after four o’clock in the afternoon. He’s been out here for a while and if he doesn’t find where he’s supposed to be it’s going to get dark soon, he realizes nervously. It’s going to get dark and Stiles is in the middle of a preserve he’s never been in with no one around to ask for help, no supplies and twenty-two percent battery left on his phone. Fantastic.

With that in mind he hauls himself to his feet and brings up the old email on his phone that displays the map of the preserve and the cartoon star that indicates the position of the school someway north-east of the preserve entrance where Stiles was dropped off by the cab. Judging by the low position of the sun if he walks up and a little to the right he should make it somewhere in the vicinity of the building any moment now. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. He’d like to say that the thought emboldens him to resume his trek but the increased tempo of his heartbeat and the pinpricks in his fingers have his feet moving more than anything else. There is nothing like anxiety as a motivator to haul ass. He busies his fingers by switching the strap between alternating shoulders to relieve some of the pressure and intermittently sipping water.

He thinks about the long journey here from the east coast, the lengthy layovers at Chicago and San Francisco and the seemingly endless bus ride and then finally, the cab through town. It’s been an incredibly tiring twenty-four hours full of stiff airport chairs and over-priced trail-mix packets. God, he would just about kill for a decent meal. He can’t do much about the gnawing hunger in his stomach at this stage.

Turns out he can’t do much more than walk aimlessly, feeling more and more lost the further he gets. Minutes fly by and the hunger starts to get overtaken by something hot and jittery. His ears prick, fingers tapping against his phone screen to make noise that isn’t the trees rustling or the far off snarling he’s beginning to hear. What even is that?

The more he walks the louder the growling becomes and the faster his heart beats. He’s about one minute away from turning around and saying _fuck it_ and going back the way he came when a voice comes from his left.

“This is private property.”

Startled, Stiles whirls around and sees a dark-haired man walk languidly towards him, hands tucked away in the pockets of a black leather jacket, a serious look on his face. Stiles gapes at him as he stops before him, half incredulous, half glad to see another human being after his whole hour in the wilderness. It’s been an ordeal, okay.

“Oh, uh sorry, dude” Stiles says, tries to talk over the rolling rush of blood in his ears, “I didn’t know.”

“Well now you do, ‘towns that way,” the man says, nodding in the direction Stiles came from.

“Look man, I didn’t know I’d crossed the arbitrary line into your property and tripped your alarm system. High tech stuff you got there,” he adds, gesturing to the branches and a nearby squirrel. “I just came from that way.”

The other man smirks and takes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re not from Beacon Hills, so I suppose you can be forgiven. Arbitrarily, of course.”

Stiles wipes some sweat from his forehead and assesses the other man, taking in his broad shoulders and manicured stubble. He tightens his grip on his phone with perspiring palms and asks, “How do you know I’m not from Beacon Hills?”

“It’s a small town.”

“Super,” Stiles mutters, regretting the decision to come here more and more by the second. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. Wonderful. Here he comes in making the first impression with one of the town's residents with his face red from exertion and his pit stains seeping through his shirt to his hoodie. He feels a little bit embarrassed of how gross and sweaty he must look when, upon second glance, the man appears to consist entirely of confidence and hard muscle. His gut swoops low, sending butterflies scattering in his stomach.

“Are you lost?”

“What? Lost? No, not at all. I just thought this would be a great place to come camp. Y’know, with all of the wilderness and the exposure,” Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes. The man stares, raising an eyebrow. “ _Yes_ , I’m lost, this place is on an infinite loop. Does that make me lost or just stuck?”

“It makes you an idiot,” the man quips. “Where are you headed?” His mouth turns down when Stiles shows him the map on his phone. “You’re headed to the school?”

“Yeah, am I close? I didn’t realize I’d need a freaking compass to get there.”

“It’s not far,” the man says. “I’ll show you. C’mon Cathy,” he beckons as begins trailing to the right and leaving Stiles gaping in his wake.

“Cathy?” He sputters, arranging his propelling limbs to follow after him. “Who’s Cathy?”

“You,” the man calls back, pressing a hand against a tree, “You’re chatty.”

“Chatty,” Stiles huffs to the mans back. “It’s Stiles, asshole - and I’m not chatty, I’m _loquacious_.”

“Your name is _Stiles_?”

“ _Stiles_?” he mimics under his breath. “Hey, at least I’m not a forest dwelling mountain man. What’s your name? Buck? Dwight? Billy-Joe?” 

“All of the above,” the man drawls, “my parents couldn’t decide on the one name. You know how it is.”

“Can’t say I’m familiar with inbreeding, so I’m going to go with ‘no’.”

The man stops and turns to scowl at Stiles who senses his error and clamps his jaw shut. “Do you actually want my help or can I go home?”

As much as Stiles stranger-danger senses are tingling the back of his neck, _danger danger_ , the orange glow of the setting sun and the sudden drop in temperature has him far more concerned. The snarling from beyond the trees has quieted somewhat but the threat of wildlife mauling still seems rather prevalent.

“Sorry,” Stiles winces. “I only speak two languages -  sarcasm or asshole.”

“Guess that explains why you’re out here alone then.”

Stiles purses his lips to trap the retort fleeing from his throat and bobs his head. “Yeah okay, I deserve that. I could use your help, please. Assuming you’re not leading me to my death and a chainsaw-wielding maniac isn’t going to end up wearing my face. Please,” he adds again. 

The man laughs through his nose, the corners of his lips curving. “Derek,” he says, before turning back and resuming the trail he’d been walking before.

“That your name?” Stiles asks, falling into line with him.

“No, my star sign.”

“Ha _ha_. What is it really? I bet you’re a cancerian, am I right? Always snapping at people?”

“Capricorn, actually.”

“Really? Wouldn’t have picked it. Anyway, Capricorn Derek, what do you guys do for fun around here? I couldn’t help but notice the lack of, y’know, anything on the drive in to town.”

“Oh, Derek replies with a solemn tone, “I don’t have time for fun. Not between fulfilling my chores of harvesting the crops and churning the butter. My hands get so sore.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Making sure my family has enough butter for their bread is no joke, Cathy.”

“That’s it,” Stiles declares, “I’m turning back and going home. I’m too young and delicate for manual labour.” 

Derek scoffs. “Relax, I’m kidding. The town's pretty big on three things - basketball, baseball and the Sunday farmers market.”

“Oh, cool - baseball?” Stiles quickening his steps to catch up with Derek.

“Yeah, you play?”

“Up until I was seventeen, yeah. I wasn’t like, crazy good or anything, but I liked it. What about you?” 

“Basketball through to college.” 

Stiles is about to open his mouth and ask if there are town teams he could maybe play on Derek stops moving and says, “We’re here”.

Stiles glances up the raised path and spots a high stone wall some thirty feet away. It’s a tall, imposing boundary, covered in ivy and blocks the view of the within property almost entirely. Together they approach the gate that grants entrance to pedestrians and cars. It appears to be electronically locked shut and he has a brief, hot flare of nerves in his throat, thinking he is going to have to spend the night outdoors after all before he notices the intercom to his right. He presses it and clears his throat.

“ _Beacon Hills School for the Gifted,”_ a distorted voice comes from the speaker.

Stiles leans in to where he assumes the microphone must be. “Uh, hi. I’m Stiles? Stilinski? I’m supposed to start here today?”

“ _One moment_ ,” the voice responds and disconnects the call.

Nothing happens with the gate for a quiet awkward moment so Stiles looks over to Derek who is staring thoughtfully at the limited view of the front garden. His hamstrings burn and his shoulders from where the strap of his bag have been digging in ache something terrible. When Derek turns his eyes to meet his stare he catches the low rays of sunlight which vivify the hue of his irises and Stiles’ stomach does a weird squiriming thing.

With a loud screech the gates swing inwards to allow Stiles passage into the property. From here he can see a long driveway and a huge sandstone dwelling in the near distance.

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“No problem,” Derek replies easily, taking a step back from the gate.

“You gonna be okay to get back?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, well, thanks - again - I owe you one.” Stiles repeats, stepping back into the property before the gates shut on him.

“You’re welcome,” Derek smirks, turning around to walk back and calling over his shoulder, “See you around, Stiles.”

Heart thumping in his chest, Stiles nods to himself and the closing gate and turns towards what looks like, upon closer inspection, a large double-storey monstrosity that reminds him a lot of the Pittock Mansion on a smaller scale than what he had been envisioning. Before coming here his daydreams had led him to believe it was going to be either a countryside castle ala Hogwarts or a super high-tech underground facility, cottage in the front, business in the back kind of thing.

The gardens for the property are green but sparse up until they reach the house itself where vines and ivy weave around the brickwork, blooming purple shrubs line the girth of the house. Lavender, probably. He doesn’t know shit about flowers.

A woman is already waiting for him as he ascends the front stairs up to the open double doors. She is brunette, petite and just a little shorter than him with a patient smile gracing her face. She can’t be much older than him, maybe early thirties, but it’s hard to tell.

“Mr Stilinski?” She asks when he reaches the top, extending out her hand to shake.

He goes to grip her hand and winces, stopping himself just short. “Just Stiles,” he says, pulling his hand back into his pocket and smiling apologetically.

“Stiles,” she repeats unfazed, beckoning and leading him into the house and shutting the doors behind them. “I’m Marin Morrell. Did you find the place okay?”

“Piece a’cake,” Stiles lies, eyes drifting skywards as they cross the threshold. Beyond the entrance is a large foyer area with a high dome shaped roof displaying an intricate honeycomb tessellation. A skylight in the high centre illuminates the area with the last dregs of daylight.

He averts his eyes back to ground level when he accidentally knocks into a round table and narrowly avoids tipping a vase full of peonies over, thankfully, because that vase looks expensive, like selling his kidneys on the black market expensive.

Marin just smiles and gestures Stiles to follow her into what looks like a large and well-lit living room. It’s well furnished, three sets of sofas, a large fireplace and plenty of circular standing tables. He is directed to sit on a leather sofa closest to the crackling fire, Marin angles herself towards him, hands clasped gently on her exposed knees.

She brushes a long strand of dark hair from her face before clearing her throat. “Now, Mr Stilinski -”

“ - Stiles.”

“Stiles - sorry - we received your paperwork ahead of your arrival so there’s nothing further you need to sign. I assume you know why you’re here and a little about what we do?”

He scratches at his chin and eyes her dubiously. “One of your reps literally showed up on my doorsteps and sold the pitch. Even if they hadn’t, the paperwork alone? No offence, but I’m more than aware that this isn’t a law school.”

Marin smiles and gets up to turn on the lamps in the darkening room before sitting back down. “I noticed in your paperwork that you were meant to start at Yale next week. Full scholarship, that’s impressive.”

“Yep. Yet here I am,” Stiles grumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “I thought a special school in backwater nowheresville would add more flavor on a resume, y’know? Real extracurricular.”

“Does that mean you don’t intend to go to college after your time here?”

“I don’t know - maybe." 

Marin makes a low enquiring noise in her throat, her eyes scan his face. “What makes you uncertain?”

“I don’t know. I mean, like, I _do_ know,” Stiles retracts, wiping his palms on his jeans, “I don’t think being in a high-stress situation in an uncontrolled environment is really an option anymore. At least not now.”

“Why is that?”

“Because,” he mutters, embarrassedly scrubbing his hand down his face, “I’m...dangerous.”

He waits for a laugh that never comes. When he feels certain he isn’t going to be plactated or ridiculed he risks looking back at her in time to see corners of her eyes soften. “I see.”

He clears his throat. “...Your rep said that you could help with my, um...ability, so yeah.”

She ducks her head and smiles, “That’s why we’re here. This school was established to help teach control and understanding to others like yourself.”

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, “good.” He relaxes his shoulders a fraction, thoughts slowing but still not sure which question to ask first.

“Tell me more about why you’re here,” Marin prompts. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Ah no, thanks” Stiles shakes his head and jiggles his leg. “I guess you know why I’m here right, right? You heard about the accident and scouted me out.” 

“Kind of,” Marin said, “but I’d like to hear why you agreed to come, specifically.”

Pins and needles extend to his extremities and unable to keep the jitters contained to his legs, Stiles stands up and paces in front of her, using his hands to gesticulate as he talks. “So, okay, right. Why I agreed to come, why I’m here - okay. So like, I’m not going to sound batshit when I say that I can do weird shit? Things I shouldn’t be able to?”

“Things like what?” Marin asks gently, her gaze following his frenetic movement.

“Like,” Stiles starts, unsure how to both explain it and sound rational. He scans the room and spots a tall, floor torchiere lamp that Marin hadn’t switched on and stalks towards it, focusing on the thrumming beneath his skin that started this all. 

He is about two feet away when he feels the painful prickling in his fingertips. Without having touched it, the light bulb in the lamp suddenly lights itself fiercely and stops in his tracks. He takes a careful breath and only moves a small step forward before the bulb grows impossibly brighter and then shatters with a loud crack, sending glass over the hardwood floors.

“Like that,” he finishes, heart pounding beneath his chest. “Electricity.”

“That’s quite a talent.”

He snorts. Talent it is _not_ , he thinks, willing his heart rate to slow back down. This is the first time he’s tried to do this on purpose in front of anybody. “Shit. Sorry about your lamp…. thing.”

Marin waves him off with a flick of her fingers. “It’s just a lamp. How long has this been happening?”

“I guess,” he says, trying to gather the shards into a rough pile by nudging them with his shoe. “I don’t know - recently, I think? Maybe always?”

Marin says nothing and so he continues. “There were some things, y’know, when I was a kid that like, in hindsight, start to click and make me think, _oh yeah._ Power outages that happened to coincide when I was upset, that kinda stuff. Nothing like the last couple of months though.”

“Tell me what's happened in the last couple of months.”

He swallows a grim smile, shaking out his hands. “I started to notice it when all the lights started flickering everywhere I went. I thought it was weird at first, but it kept happening. I’d be walking down the hall at school or just be sitting in my kitchen and the lights would just start _reacting_ \- and then stop when I’d left. My dad called three electricians and they all said the wiring was fine.” 

“Spooky,” Marin says with a small smile.

“Yeah. I thought it was weird but didn’t really think anything of it until my dad and I were setting up for dinner one night - I passed him a fork and he got zapped. Not badly or anything, but still. Made me start to think.”

“Did you know what it was then?”

 “Nah, I kept passing it off as a fluke, y’know - just seemed like coincidence? Static electricity or something.”

“Then what happened?”

Stiles clears his throat and continues pacing. “About four weeks ago - wait, do you have a broom?”

“For a demonstration?”

“No,” he said, puzzled, “for the glass.”

She waved him away and leaned back on her chair. “Forget it for now. Four weeks ago, you were saying?”

“Yeah,” he swallows, stomach rolling at the memory. “So four weeks ago I was on this date with this guy, right? My babcia - my grandma - set me up with one of her friends grandsons, a real nice Polish boy, y’know, that kind of thing.”

Marin nods and shifts in her seat waiting for Stiles to continue.

“So we’re at his place and we’d just had this nice dinner and we’re just talking. He started to wash up and I was trying to be a good guest so I was like, no dude, let me help.”

“Right. Then what happened?”

Stiles licks his lips. “He, uhh, had his hands in the sink and so, you know, I put my hands in the water as well to grab a plate to clean. Next thing I know he’s convulsing on the floor and his eyes are rolling back and his clothes are fucking _smoking._ He’d somehow been electrocuted.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Must have been terrifying,” Marin comments quietly.

He rubs at his sternum against the pressure in his chest, smiling wryly. “It was. I started to freak out because, like, I knew! Somehow I knew it was my fault but I couldn’t explain why and he’s lying there making all these noises and twitching and I just - ”

Marin doesn’t smile patiently like everyone else he’s told the story to, but waits until his breath catches up with his heartbeat.

“I panicked and when I did all the lights in subdivision went out. His microwave blew up. I had to call an ambulance in the dark while trying to put out the fire.”

“Was your date okay?”

“It was a little underwhelming, to be honest.” 

Marin clears her throat.

“Oh was _he_ okay? Yeah no, not really. His hands got burned pretty badly. They all think it was some freak accident and I wanted to think so too, but it was a pattern by then. I couldn’t stop connecting the dots.”

She shifts in her seat, clasping her hands together. “It’s not uncommon for these abilities to present at your age. With the volatility of puberty having passed, the body takes this time of equilibrium to express latent skills in some young adults.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve never wanted to be one of the X-Men less in my whole freaking life, okay? It’s cool in theory but I haven’t touched another person's skin in four weeks. I didn’t even hug my dad goodbye because I’m scared the moment I touch him he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.”

“I understand, what you have been through is a lot, but we can help you, Stiles.”

“Can you?” he queries. “In case you haven’t noticed I’m kind of a walking live-wire.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she stresses, standing up and moving towards him. “Call it a special ability, call it magic, the principle of control is the same for everyone. If you want to learn to control it, we can teach you.”

He avoids her eyes. “I hope.” 

It isn’t so much that he doubts the experience of the school and it’s staff. Based on the total of zero other options that he has, this is his best and only shot at trying to get a handle on this. Whatever this is. He can’t be the reason his dad or his friends get hurt, he can’t. He’ll do anything to avoid that - moving across the country and deferring his dream school isn’t even a blip in his radar if it means keeping them safe.

“I won’t burden you with the theory on your first day, but have some faith. I’m sure you’re very tired, Stiles. I’ll give you a quick tour and then show you up to your room, if that’s okay?”

He is tired actually, body spent from the trip to Beacon Hills and the trek to find the school. Recounting all your fears and fuck ups really tires you out apparently.

He picks his duffle up from where he dropped it on the floor and follows her quick footsteps as she leads him from the room into a large kitchen, an adjacent dining room and an office down the hall. He’s curious about the numerous rooms with closed door that don’t get a mention but doesn’t ask. They’re moving quickly and he figures he’ll have time to ask or explore later.  

The interior of the place seems to be a combination of cherry wood, antiques and furniture out of the 1920’s. There’s little time to ponder if it’s all from when the house was built as he followers her again as she leads him up the wide staircase, turning right at the top and going down a hall where she unlocks the end room.

Upon entering Stiles notes a large double bed up at the far corner, a small desk, a dark chest of drawers and not much else. A large window is pleasantly situated on the far wall letting in the setting sun bathing the room in an orange glow.

“You have your own bathroom,” Marin adds, pointing to a closed door to the left. “You can unpack or nap if you want. Dinner’s at seven.”

He’s surprised at that. “You all eat together? Everyone? Wait, who’s everyone?”

She smiles, a small proud quirk of her lips. “I think you’ll find that we’re like a big family here. We’re all on the same team, the students and staff.”

“How many people are here?”

“Three teachers and eighteen students, including you.”

“Do you all live here?”

“Most of us,” she smiles. “Once they gain control some students get jobs in the community and move out on their own but still continue to be tutored. Now get some rest, I’ll get someone to come bring you down, soon.” 

When she leaves he drops his bag to the floor and makes his way over to the bed and sits on the edge, finally alone. He rests his elbows on his knees and rubs his eyes, sighing heavily. There’s a sudden awareness of how far away he is in the absence of hearing his fathers radio and in the carpet beneath him that his bare feet have never touched.

_Home-sweet-home_ , he thinks.

\----

The sun has well and truly set by the time the knock comes to his door. Stiles has unpacked his things and spent most of the time speaking to his dad on the phone. 

“ - and don’t forget to watch Boris for me, make sure he gets plenty of sun.” 

“ _I’ll look after your damn bonsai_ ,” his father grumbles. “ _Love you kid_.”

“You too pops, bye.”

Stiles gets up from the bed and walks to the door, opening it to meet a young adult male, probably around the same age as himself, with deep brown eyes and a kind smile. 

“Style, is it?” The man asks, extending a hand to shake.

“Stiles,” Stiles corrects and goes to shake his hand before remembering. He pulls back with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, its... a thing. I can’t - ”

“No it’s cool, I get it!” The guy says, taking his hand back and grinning. “So, first day huh? I’m Scott.”

“Scott,” Stiles repeats, glad that he seems to be friendly enough. “You a student too?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, leaning against the doorframe. “My room’s just down the hall to the left if you ever wanna hang out between lessons. Did you have a long trip?”

“Yeah, it’s been a long day,” he follows Scott out the door once he has pocketed his charged phone, closing the door when a thought occurs to him. “I’m not going to get, like hazed by the other students am I?”

Scott laughs and gestures Stiles to follow him down the stairs towards the dining room. “Nah, don’t worry, you’re safe. It’s the Mets merchandise that will be your downfall. This is a Dodgers house, dude.”

\----

Dinner is, suffice to say, awkward. Stiles is still fatigued and famished from his long cross country trip and it’s not his fault that dinner turned out to be chicken kiev - which is his fifth all-time-favorite meal. He has rosy flashbacks to his childhood years of his babcia trying to trick him into thinking her _Kotlet de volaille_ was a choo-choo train.

So, naturally that means his first impression meeting his house and classmates is with parsley butter dripping down his chin and chicken half chewed in his mouth.

The herd of eight or so students descending the hall stairs and into the dining room is a curious bunch, some rowdy with banter and jibes until they spot the anomaly in the room and start to shuffle in slower around the dining table. With curious however cautious eyes not-so-subtly trained on him, they all take a seat. Only Scott sits directly next to him.

Stiles’ eye is caught on an attractive redhead girl who couldn’t be much older than him. He forces his eyes away from the shine of her hair and the delicate fullness of her lips and waves to the room at large.

“So, uh, I’m new. My name is Stiles.”

“Style?” Someone towards the far right end of the long table asks.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he reiterates, “like, plural. Stile' _s._ ”   

After that, no one seems to really care. Sure there are some interested whispering about his appearance if the glance his way are anything to go by but he’s too far away to make out what they’re saying. Scott seems nice enough but when it comes down to it he’s only got himself and think it’s probably smart for now to keep his head down, keeping his focus on integration. He plays with the carrots on his plates a little, sneaking subtle looks at the other students. It’s only when the attractive redhead on the opposite side of the table from him starts casually explaining the gist of string-theory to the student on her left does Stiles think to ask.

“Who’s that?” Stiles asks, elbowing Scott and nodding toward the girl.

“Who’s who?” Scott asks, oblivious.

“Ten o’clock,” Stiles whispers, “Red hair, green dress.”

“Lydia?” Scott asks, scanning the table and meeting Stiles’ descriptors.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, taking in her softness, her curves. “Lydia, huh? S’cool.” 

“She’s okay, I guess,” Scott says with disinterest. Stiles agrees emphatically, watching as her cleavage presses higher up her chest as she leans forward across the table to engage with another classmate. 

He wants to open his mouth, ask what is it that got Lydia, Scott and his surrounding classmates that got them invitation into the wannabe Xaviers Institution. They all look so young, so normal on the surface that it isn’t until he notices the scraping sound of what he thought was cutlery on plates to be distended _claws_ on fingertips scraping the ceramic.  

When he actually looks around and observes, he finds the source of the noise to be young boy at the end of the table who is eating the chicken raw, licking at the blood that stains his fingers and slips down his wrist. The kid, no older than thirteen, winks at him when Stiles stares.

He turns his head and spots another guy take off a pair of leather gloves. It all seems very normal until he reaches out to take a sip from his glass of water - which starts to bubble and _boil._

“Ah crap,” the guy mutters forlornly, “I thought I had it that time.”

Morrell arrives a few minutes later carrying the freshest plate of greens Stiles has ever seen, under a bed of steaming red quinoa placed straight in front Lydia.

“Vegetarian?” Stiles asks, desperately reaching for conversation.

Lydia smiles wistfully, down at the plate. “Something like that.” 

His first instinct is to ask, but he clamps his jaw shut as soon as he opens it. Chalks it up to fad diets, feels that given his mistakes, the vacancy of his last dates eyes, that he probably hasn’t the right to ask others to explain themselves. He’s so curious though. If his particular set of bizarre circumstances led him here, then what is everyone else's story?

He manages to stay mostly silent throughout dinner, save for answering a few personal questions from some of the others - like, where is he from, how old he is, why is he here. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, nineteen and because he changes the TV channel every time he sneezes. The last one is a lie, but it’s better than saying that he can’t stop electrocuting people who get near him.

When he goes to bed later that night, he stares up at the ceiling, trying to make a home for his body in the unfamiliar mattress. Despite the foreign environment, the shadows of his window pane across the floor and the sounds of the night, wild hooting and howling, he succumbs to exhaustion, a half composed text to his dad on his phone.


End file.
